Glass Doors
by kissyfur
Summary: AU/AH. We were forever, and no matter what, I knew I would always love her. But each decision we make carries consequences, and sometimes everybody must pay the price.
1. Chapter 1

This will be short-just 5 chapters-and is already written. Updates will probably be once a week, although I can't promise that I won't get impatient and update sooner.

All characters and recognizable story components and plotlines belong to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

I sit just inside the glass door that leads out to the balcony, but I'm not looking outside. Laid out behind me is a breathtaking 18th story view of the Seattle skyline at night—the deciding factor when we leased the apartment 3 years ago. I haven't looked at it in months.

I stare instead at the picture in my hands—just an ordinary 5x7 in a simple silver frame. Her face smiles out at me; chocolate eyes bright with happiness, wavy sable hair flowing past her shoulders, pink lips curved up and ever so slightly parted. I know that she is wearing a dark blue dress that bares her shoulders, and that I am standing next to her in a black tuxedo. I know that one of her legs is in a walking cast, and that our arms are wrapped around each other. I know these things because this picture from our junior prom has sat next to whatever bed I am sleeping in for the last 4 years, but I don't see them right now. All I see is her face, happy and in love.

My phone beeps twice; it is 11:00. I stand up, picture still in hand, and walk across the living room, down the hallway, into the bathroom. I set the frame down on the counter and shed my clothing before stepping into the shower. As I wash, my eyes never leave hers as they smile at me from the laminated snapshot stuck to the tiles with putty. I notice that the lamination is starting to separate a bit at the corner; I will have to replace it again soon.

I step out and grab a towel to dry off, my eyes finding hers in the mirror. As I brush my teeth over the sink, I study the shape of her face, the quiet beauty of her soft smile, the slight blush on her cheeks. The wind had picked up a little in the late afternoon, and a few strands of hair had blown across her face in the instant before my finger had pushed the button. This picture is laminated as well, stuck to the mirror with more putty. I learned early on that tape doesn't last long in the bathroom; the steam from the shower destroys it within a week. The putty lasts much longer.

Finished, I grab the frame back off the counter and make my way to the bedroom. I gently place it back on the nightstand where it belongs before turning the light off and sliding into bed. Tomorrow is Sunday, so there is no need to set the alarm; I don't have to be anywhere until 12:30, when I meet Alice at Gianna's for lunch. I take one last long look at her sitting next to my bed before I close my eyes and focus on the blackness, pushing all thoughts out of my head and willing myself to sleep.

I dream of her; I always do. Beautiful face twisted in pain and shock, tears just starting to form in her horrified eyes as she turns to run. Over and over again, like a tape stuck on repeat. But that's all I dream of, and I wake up thankful.

I don't want to go out, and I don't want to see Alice. But my sister doesn't take no for an answer, so when she called me on Tuesday to ask if I had plans for lunch on Sunday I didn't even bother trying to come up with an excuse. It's not that I don't love the little pixie or enjoy her company, because I do. But being with her now, seeing her pain—and even worse, her sympathy—is almost more than I can bear.

I know Alice picked Gianna's because it is convenient to my building, but I wish she had chosen somewhere farther away. It will only raise questions I have no intention of answering if I drive the 3 blocks instead of walking, so I don't have the option of studying what's tucked into the visor of my Volvo. As I walk I decide that I will insist on paying, and have maybe 5 seconds to look at the picture slid into the front see-through pocket of my wallet.

By now I have arrived at my destination, and as I step inside I spot Alice at a table in the corner. I walk over and sit down across from her, studying her face as I do so. Something is different; she looks…nervous? She immediately starts chattering about nothing in particular, so I sit back and wait for her to get to the point. Because I know that there is definitely a point to this lunch; something that she didn't want to talk about over the phone, something she isn't quite sure how to say. Finally, as our empty plates are being cleared, she is quiet. When we are once again alone she draws in a deep breath and lets it out in a rush.

"I've been seeing somebody once a week for the last month and it's really been helping me deal with everything and I really think it might be a good thing for you to do, too. She gave me the number of a colleague who she says is very good at dealing with this kind of thing, and I really, _really_ think that you should give him a call."

It takes me a few seconds to sort through the word vomit and understand what she is saying, but when I do my response is immediate and unequivocal.

"No."

"Edward, please just give it a shot? It's been months, and I don't know how much longer I can stand to see you like this! You're like a zombie, you don't talk to me, you don't ever go anywhere or do anything. You haven't even signed up for any classes when the new semester starts. You keep blowing Jasper off, and Emmett hasn't heard from you in ages. Mom and Dad are terrified, and to be truthful so am I. I lost my best friend Edward, and now it feels like I'm losing my brother, too. Please? Just…please?"

She is crying now, the tears rolling down her cheeks and her arms wrapped around her stomach, and I realize that I haven't been fooling her at all. Alice knows there is more going on than I have told her, and our parents are worried as well. I don't want to talk to this person she mentioned, but hurting my family is not an option. They have shed enough tears lately; I won't draw out their pain. If my agreeing to see…someone… will make them feel better, it is a small price to pay. It won't help me, but nothing could possibly make things any worse, so what the hell.

"All right, Alice, give me the number."

She sniffles and reaches into her purse for a tissue to dab at her eyes with. "Will you please promise to call him and set up an appointment?"

"I promise."

"Tomorrow?"

I growl softly. "Alice…"

"Please, Edward?"

"Fine! I'll call first thing Monday morning! Are you happy now?"

She smiles tremulously. "Yes. Edward, I know you don't want to do this, but I really do think that it would help. Bottling everything up just isn't healthy, and since you won't talk to your family or friends, I don't know what else to do."

"I said I would, can we talk about something else now, please?"

We exchange a few more sentences, I pay for our lunch (over Alice's objections, but I insist), and walk home. For the rest of the afternoon and evening I sit on the couch, looking through the albums that now reside permanently on the coffee table. At 8:00 I call for take-out Chinese, and by 9:00 I am back in front of the balcony door, holding the silver frame in my hands as I once again ignore the view. I don't want to go to bed, I know that after today's events the night ahead of me will not be a good one. But when my phone beeps twice, I obediently stand and go through my evening routine. Just like last night. Just like every night for the last 4 months.

I am successful at keeping my mind clear until I fall asleep.

I dream of her; I always do. Beautiful face twisted in pain and shock, tears just starting to form in her horrified eyes as she turns to run. Over and over again, like a tape stuck on repeat. But then it changes, continues, and I see what comes next. I was right; it is not a good night.

I wake up gasping for air, and the first thing I do is turn my head and focus on the picture sitting on the nightstand as I try and regulate my breathing and slow the racing of my pulse. Eventually I am able to push everything out of my mind and I see nothing but her smiling lips, her happy eyes.

The woman who answers the phone asks me to hold please, and then a deep voice introduces himself and says that he has been hoping to hear from me. He has openings on Tuesday and Thursday, and would like me to come twice a week to begin with. I had hoped to put it off for longer, but I think of Alice and agree to be there tomorrow at 3:30.

The day passes like most others, but I receive more than the usual number of calls. Alice is first, and there is no avoidance or small talk like at the restaurant. She cries again, but I am pretty sure that this time they are relieved tears instead of sad ones. By the end of the day I have talked to my mother and father, as well as Emmett and Jasper. Alice has been busy, but I can't find the will to be upset. There are worse things than having a family that loves you, people to worry about you.

The apartment is spotlessly clean, the pizza remains thrown away, the lights turned off. I sit on the sofa and stare at the coffee table, but can't bring myself to open one of the books sitting there. I can't quiet my mind tonight, and know better than to look while distracted. I glance at the piano sitting across the room, and for a moment almost contemplate playing before shaking off the thought with a bitter laugh. I am restless, jumpy, but not stupid.

My elbows are digging into my knees, hands pulling at my hair in frustration. I want a drink, but I poured all the alcohol in the apartment down the kitchen sink months ago. My hands need something to do, so I go to the kitchen and pour a glass of water. Open the freezer and add some ice. My feet need somewhere to go, so I find myself walking through the rooms, touching things randomly. I adjust already straight frames, move a vase 2 inches to the left, pull a book off a shelf and flip through it as I walk around, only to set it down on an end table a minute later.

My phone beeps twice, and I want to heave the tumbler in my hand through the nearest window. My routine has gone to shit, and I curse Alice as I contemplate the night ahead of me.

For the first time in recent memory, I go to bed without completing my nightly routine. No shower. No staring. No pretty brown eyes laughing into mine. I keep my gaze focused straight ahead as I make my way down the hall. My eyes stay closed as I disrobe and slip into bed; a bed we never shared, that I have only ever slept in alone. In the back of my mind is the thought that perhaps I can avoid the dreams tonight, but the rest of me knows better.

I dream of her; I always do. Tonight there is no beautiful face twisted in pain and shock, tears just starting to form in her horrified eyes as she turns to run. Tonight there is only what came later, and I wake up with a face wet with tears and a throat raw from screaming.

It is 3:49, and I sit on a soft brown leather couch as I avoid the eyes watching me from behind wire-framed glasses. The pleasantries have been seen to, and the first questions have been asked. Questions I'm not sure I want to answer. What point is there in dredging everything back up? I shift uncomfortably on the cushions, and the silence stretches on.

4:09, and I am talking. Halting, softly spoken stories of high school, and biology labs, and pretty pink lips caught between pretty little teeth. Of freesias and strawberries and the most beautiful deep brown eyes the world has ever known.

8:38, and I am once again sitting on my own couch, staring at the closed books in front of me, wondering if I dare open them after the events of the day. But it has been too long, and I can't keep my hands from folding back the first cover, can't keep my fingers from tracing full lips and arching brows. Can't keep my eyes from drinking in the captured moments of a happy life.

I dream of her; I always do. Beautiful face twisted in pain and shock, tears just starting to form in her horrified eyes as she turns to run. Over and over again, like a tape stuck on repeat. But that's all I dream of, and I wake up surprised and thankful. It was more than I expected.


	2. Chapter 2

I know I said updates would be weekly, but I was sitting here at the computer, trying to work on the next chapter of "Blood Play", and failing miserably. So, to make myself feel like I at least accomplished _something_ today, here is the next installment of Glass Doors.

I forgot to mention a few things when I posted the first chapter, so here they are. First-tissue warning. If you thought the first chapter was heartbreaking, you ain't seen nothin' yet. This chapter gets worse, and by chapter 3 you better just have a whole box handy. Second, huge thanks go out to Renee Aubin for pre-reading this and making a few crucial suggestions that improved it immensely.

As always, all characters and recognizable plot belong to Stephenie Meyer. I own what little bit is left over.

* * *

Thursday. 3:35, and I am already talking. I close my eyes and listen to the sound of my voice as it tells of cafeteria lunch tables and icy parking lots. I talk about a hike in the woods and a small meadow filled with wildflowers.

And this is when I realize that closing my eyes was a mistake.

The sound of my voice in the darkness has lulled me, and as I begin to describe chocolate waves laid out across lush green grass, I feel the memory sweeping over me. And for just a moment, I forget why I shouldn't let it.

My voice breaks off into a sharp gasp as my eyes fly open and fly around the room, trying to find something to focus on. Heaving a deep, sobbing breath, I lower my head into my hands and pull angrily at my hair, the pain bringing me back to here and now. I find the muted colors and soft, soothing shapes on the rug underneath my feet, and stare at them for several minutes until I feel my breathing even out and my heart slow.

When I finally raise my head, it is to meet concerned hazel eyes regarding me closely, and a voice asking if I am all right. I nod, because even though I'm not all right, I'm as close as I'm going to get.

"Edward, can you tell me what happened just now?"

I nod again, but don't start talking right away. I am angry with myself for being so careless, and for not realizing how dangerous these sessions could be. I had originally thought of them as a way to make Alice happy, and to reassure the people who care about me that I am making the effort to be okay again. I never expected them to actually help me.

But Tuesday had not gone as I expected, and I had begun to wonder. Not hope—hope was too strong of a word for what I was feeling—but just even the possibility of hope was more than I had imagined. So I showed up today, ready and willing to talk, and I got careless. I can't let that happen again, so I wait until I am sure I have myself under control again before I answer his question.

"I made a mistake. I got too comfortable, and tried to remember that day in the meadow."

"The day that you were just telling me about?"

"Yeah."

"Weren't you remembering it already?"

"No, I was just talking about it. Relating facts. I haven't actually remembered it for months."

"Did something bad happen that day?"

"No, it was perfect; one of the best days of my life."

"Your reaction was pretty extreme. If it was a good memory, then why did you react that way?"

I hesitate, unsure if I want to share this part of me. But then I think about Tuesday, and how the dreams that night were so much less than I had expected them to be, and decide that I will see this through. It probably won't help anything, but at least I can have the knowledge that I tried.

"Because I wasn't remembering that day. I tried to, but what actually came up was something else. It's the same thing that happens whenever I try to remember."

"But, you've been talking since you got here, as well as Tuesday. Why did you only have this reaction now?"

"Because I was just talking about things I knew, not trying to remember them. Just like I can tell you that this morning I got up, ate a piece of toast and scrambled eggs for breakfast, then got dressed in a green shirt and jeans. I can tell you all that without actually _remembering _doing it."

"I see. What is it, then, that you do remember?"

I shake my head. "It wouldn't make sense if I tried to tell you that right now. It's better if we just keep doing what we've been doing." I just need to be more focused, and not let my attention wander again.

He studies me closely for several moments before slowly nodding and leaning back in his chair. After a minute or so I continue talking, picking up where I left off. Sometimes I make eye contact, and other times I let my eyes wander around the room. I don't make the mistake of closing them again, and the session ends with no more outbursts or breakdowns.

The next several weeks pass by, for the most part uneventfully. Alice calls more than usual, and in almost every conversation she finds a way to bring up my sessions. I want to be irritated with her for it, but I can't. She never pushes, never pries; mostly she just makes sure that I am still going. I get together with Emmett now and then: twice at the gym, and at a little diner for lunch a few times. It's strange to see my gregarious brother so subdued and quiet, but I understand that he's still hurting, too. She may not have actually been his sister, but they always shared a special bond.

I call Jasper a couple of times, but the conversations are halting and stilted. He is too damned perceptive, and knew from the beginning that something was wrong, other than the obvious. I may be able to pull this off with everybody else, but there's no fooling Jasper. So I avoid him as much as possible, and put Alice off whenever she brings the subject up.

Mom and Dad are harder. Their grief is still so fresh, like an open wound that is just beginning to scab over. It's physically painful for me to be around them, but I try.

And for two hours a week, I listen to the sound of my own voice. Usually it's detached and unemotional, because it has to be. Sometimes I lose my focus, let something slip through the wall I have erected in my mind, and have to spend several minutes regaining control of myself. But not very often.

I have almost reached the end of our story, and the good doctor now knows more about our life together than anyone else ever has. He knows about the first time I met the eyes of the new girl across the length of the school cafeteria, and how I couldn't stop staring until the bell rang. He knows about the first day in Biology, when I was so tongue-tied and nervous that I couldn't even introduce myself.

He knows about the first time I kissed her, that first day I took her to what I later came to think of as our meadow. He knows about all the nights I climbed the tree outside her window, when we would sit on her bed and talk until daybreak. The first time I told her I loved her, and she said it back.

He knows how breathtaking she looked when I picked her up for our junior prom, because I bring the picture in to show him. He asks about the cast. She had fallen down the stairs a few weeks before prom, and when I wouldn't accept the excuse that she didn't know how to dance, she tried to use her cast as a reason to get out of it. I bullied, cajoled, and eventually bribed her into going; then I stood her on my toes and danced her around until my feet were numb.

By the end of the night she was flushed and giddy, throwing her arms around my neck and saying that if she had known how much she would love dancing with me, she would have learned how years ago. I responded that there was no way I was going to dance her on my feet at our wedding, so she better learn how one of these days. She simply smiled and kissed me.

For one of our sessions he has me bring in one of the photo albums and go through it page by page, telling him the story behind every picture. This is harder, trying to remember without really remembering, and I slip more than usual that day. I can feel his eyes on me as I struggle for breath, watching and waiting while I get myself back under control, before asking me to please continue.

That night is…not good.

The day that I tell him about the first time we made love is even more difficult. Keeping the memories at bay is nearly impossible, but somehow I manage as my voice stutters and shakes. This is the first time that talking about her hasn't brought some measure of comfort, and I try to get through it as quickly as possible. Of course, this is like waving a red flag in front of a bull, and the good doctor is full of questions. How long had we been going out at that point (a year and a half), how old were we, (eighteen, although my nineteenth birthday was just around the corner), had either of us been with any previous partners (no)?

At the next session, he asks if we ever fought. Most of the events I have related so far have been happy ones, but no relationship is perfect all of the time.

"We fought for months about where to live while we went to school. She wanted to live in some rathole student housing or some shit. Always so damn self-sufficient. She didn't want my family paying for anything, wanted to do everything for herself. That's why we were staying in Seattle for school in the first place. We could have gone anywhere we wanted; we both had the grades for it. But U Dub offered her a full-ride scholarship, and so she wouldn't let my parents pay for her to go anywhere else. She wouldn't even apply for student loans; she couldn't see the point in starting life out with college debt when it wasn't necessary."

"Her parents couldn't help pay for school?"

"Oh, Charlie had some money set aside for college, but she wouldn't take it. For the same reason she wouldn't apply for any loans or grants. She told him to put it in a retirement fund."

"So how did you end up resolving the housing issue?"

"I have no idea. We were up in my room one day, and ended up fighting about it again. Things got a little more heated than usual, and we both said some things we probably shouldn't have. Anyway, she started crying and ran down the stairs to leave. I went after her, and found her with my mom by the front door. I tried to apologize, but Mom asked me to take off for a little while and let the two of them talk. So I did. I just drove around for a few hours, thinking about how stupid the whole thing was. I mean, what the hell did it matter where we lived? If it made her feel better to stay in some tiny little shithole apartment, then what was the big deal? Was I such a spoiled little rich kid that I couldn't put up with a few years in a…"

I close my eyes tightly, breathing deep as I try and center myself, try to stay in the here and now. I'm not sure how many minutes pass before I feel able to continue, but eventually I start talking again.

"I got back to the house, and they were sitting at the kitchen table, and even though she wasn't crying anymore, I could still see the tear tracks on her cheeks. I felt like the biggest shit in the world, making my girl cry like that over something so pointless. I barely made it over to her before I hit my fucking knees and buried my face in her lap. I told her I was sorry for being such an ass, and we could live wherever she wanted to; that as long as we were together, we could live in the ghetto as far as I was concerned."

I have to stop again; this time it takes longer, but eventually I hear his voice asking if I'm okay to continue, and I nod my head.

"She pulled my face up, and said that she was the one who was sorry. That I was right, and it didn't matter where we lived, as long as we were together. That since I was going to be a big-time doctor, she might as well get used to living the good life, and that she wanted to start looking at apartments as soon as possible after graduation."

"It sounds as if she and your mother had an interesting conversation."

"Yeah, but I don't know what finally made her change her mind. Neither one of them would ever breathe a word about what they talked about that day. But I told her, while I was down on my knees; I promised her that I would never make her cry again.

"I fucking promised her."


	3. Chapter 3

Tissue warning still in effect.

As always, all characters and recognizable plot belong to Stephenie Meyer. I own what little bit is left over.

* * *

As the weeks drag on, and the story draws toward its conclusion, the comfort I had felt being able to finally talk about her starts to change into something else. The nights, which had been mostly good since I first started coming here, have taken a turn for the worse. More often than not, now, I wake up with my pillow wet with tears and the dreadful images still burned into the backs of my eyelids. The days are getting worse, as well, my control disintegrating as the flashbacks come more and more frequently.

"I'm not so sure this was a good idea."

I sit on the comfortable brown leather couch, looking at the soothing swirls of muted colors around my feet. I don't want to look up, don't want to see those hazel eyes behind their wire-rimmed glasses, staring deep into my soul as they try and work out my secrets. I know what they must see. I am more pale than usual, which does nothing to minimize the dark circles that have taken up residence under my eyes. Out of the corner of my eye I see that my hand is trembling, and immediately close it into a fist to stop the shaking.

"Not sure that what was a good idea?"

"This." I sweep my hand around in a careless motion, still not looking up. "All this talking. I thought at first that it might help, but all it seems to be doing is making things worse. I think it might be best if I didn't come anymore."

Silence greets this statement, and I begin to fidget under the weight of the stare I can feel pinning me down. The minutes stretch on endlessly, and finally I am forced to look up, unable to stand the absence of sound any longer. Green eyes lock with hazel ones for less than a second before my gaze skitters away, skipping around the room like a moth desperately trying to find an open window through which it can escape. Finally, I hear the creaking of leather as he shifts his weight in the chair, leaning forward and once more catching my eyes.

"Have you ever heard the phrase, 'it has to get worse before it can get better?'"

I laugh humorlessly. "Is that really all you've got? All those books you've got lined up back there, all that time spent earning the degrees you have hung up on your wall, and the best you can do is old clichés?"

He cracks a smile at that, and sits back in his chair again. "You know, clichés become that way for a reason. And in this case, I think it sums things up pretty well. You've been protecting yourself, creating coping strategies in order to avoid feeling the pain associated with losing someone you love very much. But if you ever want to get better, to feel alive again, then you're going to have to allow yourself to feel that pain. You can only live in a bubble for so long."

"You don't think I feel pain? You don't think I spend every second of every day hurting? You're so full of shit, and you don't even know it. You don't know anything!" I am on my feet and shouting by the time I finish, vibrating with rage that this near stranger thinks that he has _any idea_ of what I am feeling, what I have been through. What the hell does he know, with his stupid diploma and his fucking degree and his goddamn books? Nothing! He knows nothing!

"Then explain it to me. You've spent the last dozen sessions telling me all about your relationship, but you still haven't touched on what happened that night. You can't keep avoiding it, if you want to move past it."

Somehow, those few sentences completely deflate me, and I collapse back onto the couch with my face buried in my hands. In a way, I know that he is right. I made the decision to see this through to the end, but I've been putting it off for the last few sessions. I should have been finished more than a week ago, but I kept dragging it out. I don't know if I'm strong enough to face the end. But I have to. I deserve it.

"You already know what happened, don't you?" My voice is hollow and defeated.

"I know the basics; bare facts set down in a case file. But I don't know why. I don't know what led up to it, what caused it, or any of the circumstances surrounding the events. I don't know your story, and that's what we're here for."

Running my hands through my hair, I finally lift my face up and look at him. I feel dead inside, defeated by the knowledge that the time for running away is past. "I don't know how much time we have left, and this is going to take awhile."

"Okay. Wait here for a moment, and I'll be right back." With that he leaves me alone in the office, disappearing out into the reception area for several minutes. When he returns, he locks the door behind him before taking a seat again. "You're my last appointment of the day, so there's no rush. I asked Jane not to disturb us, and to go ahead and leave at her regular time."

I just stare at him, dumbfounded. "But, don't you have a family or something that you need to get home to? We can do this next week, I don't want to keep you…"

"Edward," his voice is as serious as I have ever heard it, and his expression is nothing less than absolutely sincere. "This is important. This is what we have been working toward all these weeks, and you're ready _now_. Putting it off until next week is not going to make it any easier. You need to take your opportunities when they present themselves. So, whenever you're ready."

My hands are shaking, and I feel like I might vomit. It's time. This is really happening. With a deep breath, I begin to speak.

"We were coming to the end of junior year, which is when the ass-kicking really starts. The first couple of years are mostly taken up with Gen-Ed classes, but junior year is when you really have to put your nose down to the grindstone. Bella was an English Lit major, so she was practically living in the library those last few months, writing papers and getting ready for finals. I'm pre-med, so I spent a lot more time in the lab. We didn't get to see a lot of each other, but we knew that once the semester was over we'd have all summer, so it was bearable.

"My lab partner was this chick named Tanya. She and I were what you might call friendly rivals; we were the top two in the class, and kept switching between first and second place. But we got along pretty well, and it just made sense to be partnered up with the only person who had a chance of challenging me. So, being partners, we ended up spending a ton of time together. Not just in the lab, but after class and on weekends and shit, studying.

"Not only was she brilliant, but Tanya was gorgeous, too. Like, beauty queen gorgeous. Most girlfriends would have been jealous of their boyfriend spending so much time with a girl like that. But not mine. Bella knew that she was it for me, and that no other woman ever had a chance of getting so much as a second look.

"Even when Tanya made a pass at me just before the end of winter semester, my girl still didn't mind us working together. I mean, Tanya knew I had a girlfriend that I was serious about; we lived together, for God's sake! And she still tried to kiss me! I should have found another partner right then and there, but Bella wouldn't let me. She said she trusted me, and that I shouldn't let the fact that I was irresistible to the entire female population of the world keep me from working with the smartest person available." I can't hold back a snort as I relay that last bit, feeling the red creep up my neck at referring to myself that way. But they were her words, not mine.

"So, there we were, the end of the year finals coming up fast, and we barely had time to kiss each other goodbye in the mornings. Bella was spending all her time finishing up some paper or another, and I was spending all mine with this girl who made it clear, time and time again, that she was interested in doing more than lab work with me. It basically sucked. But, I just kept telling myself that summer was coming, and we just had to hold on for a few more weeks.

"Then one of my Tuesday classes got cancelled unexpectedly. I knew Bella didn't have a class right then, so I thought maybe we could grab lunch together for the first time in forever. I called her, but she said she was stuck in the library finishing up some research. So I decided to just get out and enjoy the day for a little while. I'd been cooped up in the lab for so long, and it was a beautiful spring day, and I figured I could use the fresh air and exercise. So, about an hour later, I'm walking around downtown. And whom do I see coming out of a doorway with some guy, laughing and smiling up at him? My fucking girlfriend, that's who."

Unable to sit still any longer, I throw myself up out of the couch and start pacing around the office. "I felt like I'd been kicked in the guts. And then she _hugged_ him! I couldn't take anymore, so I turned around and walked away. I'm not sure how I made it back to the school, but I somehow managed to finish out my classes for the day. Tanya and I were supposed to meet up that evening for a study session, but I called her up with an excuse about being sick and went straight home. I kept thinking up reasons why Bella would have been in that part of town, with that guy. Maybe she couldn't stand being in the library for one more minute, and she went for a walk with a classmate? Maybe he was a study partner, and they were working at his house instead of the library? There had to be some explanation, and I needed to find out what it was.

"So, when she got home that night, I asked her how it went at the library. And she said it went _fine_. Said she was so sorry about having to blow me off for lunch, but that she really needed to finish up that research for a paper she had due. She _lied_ to me. And I should have said something then. I should have asked her what she was doing halfway across town, when she claimed to be at the library. I should have said _something_, _anything_, but I didn't. I let her lie.

"I spent the next week obsessing over it, wondering what she had been doing, and why she had lied to me about it. We still barely saw each other, and it had been weeks since we had sex. I began to feel like I was going crazy. So the next Tuesday I skipped class, and I went back to where I had seen her. And sure enough, she showed up. She knocked on the door, and the same guy opened it for her, and they hugged again before she went inside. I just sat there on the sidewalk, unable to process what I had seen. I don't know how long I stayed there, but it was at least an hour. And when she finally came out…"

I stop pacing and just stand there, staring into the open space in front of me and fighting back the memory that wants to try and break through. I would welcome it; just to see her smiling again, I would embrace it with open arms. But I know that if I allow my walls to falter, it will be another vision entirely that greets me. So I grimly push it back, and when at last I feel under control again, I make my way back over to the couch and slump down on it. Suddenly all my energy has deserted me, leaving me feeling drained and empty.

"When she finally came out, she looked like I hadn't seen her in weeks—like she'd been freshly fucked. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair was messy, and her clothes were rumpled. She was laughing again, and this time when she hugged him, she kissed him on the cheek. She practically danced her way down the street when she left. And I just…I just sat there.

"By the time I made it home that night, she was already asleep. I stood there in the bedroom, and I watched her sleeping, and I thought. I thought about everything going on in our lives, and how maybe she just needed a little bit of stress relief. I told myself that when someone cheats, it's usually because they're missing something at home; and that made perfect sense. God knew I was never around, and when I was there I was either sleeping or studying.

"She loved me, I knew that without a doubt. Whoever this guy was, he couldn't be anything important to her. He was just picking up my slack. I decided then and there that I would be everything she needed me to be. It didn't matter if Tanya finished out the year in first place; I needed to spend less time in the lab, and more time taking care of things at home. I'd keep my girl so happy and satisfied, she wouldn't need to look anywhere else for anything."

"So you weren't upset with her, even though you suspected she was cheating on you?"

"Fuck, yeah, I was upset with her. Don't get me wrong, I knew that we needed to talk about this shit, but right then wasn't the time. I thought that it could wait until finals were over—when it was just the two of us, without all this added stress, and we could devote our whole attention to fixing whatever the hell had gone wrong. We were forever, no matter how much got screwed up along the way. So fighting, and blaming, and all that other shit was just going to have to wait until we had the time for it. Right then, I just needed to make it right. We were more important than anything else: more important than hurt feelings, and definitely more important than keeping a perfect GPA.

"So all that week, I blew off anything school-related that I didn't absolutely have to do. I cleaned the apartment so she wouldn't have to. I made dinner every night, and gave her foot and back rubs when she came dragging in the door. I made love to her on the nights when she wasn't too tired, and made sure that she at least got off on the nights that she was too exhausted to actually do anything. I was the perfect boyfriend all week long, and the next Tuesday I was camped out across the street from that goddamn door again, hoping and praying that she wouldn't show up.

"But she did. When I saw her coming down the street, I thought I was going to puke. 'Maybe she's here to break it off,' I told myself. But when that fucker opened the door, she hugged him and went inside just like before. And she came back out an hour later, looking just as flushed and disheveled as the week before. She looked so damn happy, and it felt like a knife twisting in my heart.

"When I got home that night, she had dinner ready, and candles on the table, and she was wearing this sexy little blue dress that she knew I loved. She said that I had been taking such good care of her lately, and she wanted to show me how much she appreciated it. And I should have said something then, but once again I didn't. I sat there across the table from her, and I watched her eating and talking and laughing, and I wondered how she could do it. How could she sit over there and act like nothing was wrong? Like she wasn't betraying everything we had?

"Later that night, I held her while she slept, and once again I thought. All night long I thought. I was so angry with her, so enraged at how easy it was for her to betray us. But at the same time, I knew I would never stop loving her. And no matter what she was doing, I knew that she loved me, too. I knew that I would have to find a way to forgive her; because there was no way I could live without her. I just wasn't sure how to do that, when I had so much rage inside.

"And then, sometime just before dawn, it came to me. I would wait until after finals were over, but I knew what I was going to do."

* * *

Yep, I did leave it there. Update should be in 2-3 days.


	4. Chapter 4

Severe angst, as well as some graphic and disturbing imagary.

As always, all characters and recognizable plot belong to Stephenie Meyer. I own what little bit is left over.

* * *

I sit there on the couch, staring down at the floor. I don't have the energy for pacing any longer. I feel eyes on me, hear the creaking of leather as the chair across from me shifts a bit, but I don't look up. I pick a spot on the floor—the vortex of a dusty rose swirl on a background of light beige—and I focus all my attention on that small detail. I don't know if I will be able to finish, but I do know that if I am to have even the smallest chance then I will need to keep my mind as blank as possible. No feelings, no emotions, and—most of all—no eye contact. I will the numbness to wash over me, and then I continue.

"Less than 2 weeks later, it was time. By some coincidence we actually both had our last finals on the same day, although mine finished several hours before Bella's. She was going to go out with some classmates for a few drinks after her last test, then come home to change so we could go out to dinner. I told her our reservation was for 9:00, which meant she would be back at the apartment by about 8:00.

"I had it all worked out, pretty much down to the minute. She walked in the door a little before 8:00, just like I planned it. She always did the same thing when she came home; she would drop her keys on the table in the front hall, hang her coat up, and then toss her backpack down next to the couch on her way to the bedroom. I heard the front door close, heard the thump when her bag hit the door, and I watched the doorway, just waiting for her to appear."

My eyes are stinging now, my vision misty and my breathing harsh. With grim determination I continue to stare at the same spot on the floor, willing the image of the swirling pattern to imprint itself into my retinas so that I won't be able to see anything else.

"I'll never forget her face when she walked through the door. It's burned into my mind, and whenever I try to remember anything about her, whenever I try to picture her, that's the only thing I can see. The horror, and the devastation, and the tears that were just about to spill over before she turned and ran. She ran, and I didn't go after her. I stayed behind, and I fucked that strawberry-blonde bitch in our bed for half the night. We finally fell asleep around midnight, and woke up 3 hours later to the police knocking on the door."

Something tries to break through the numbness I have submerged myself in, but I pull the cloak tighter around myself and fight it off. I need the numb if I am to finish this; the pain can come later.

"Maybe the elevator was taking too long. Or maybe she just couldn't stop moving; maybe she had to run. Nobody will ever know why she took the stairs, considering that she used to joke that she was so clumsy she was practically disabled. And especially in that situation, when she was crying, and upset…she should have never tried to navigate even one flight of stairs, much less 17 of them. But she almost made it."

For the first time since I sat down, I look up and meet the eyes of the man sitting across from me. I want to flinch away from the sympathy I see in them, but just can't find the energy.

"When we started looking at apartments, there were 2 available in the building we ended up in. One of them was on the fifth floor, on the other side of the building, and you could see right into the windows of the apartments across the street. It was cheaper, and she tried to talk me into settling for that one. The building location was exactly what I wanted, and the apartment itself was beautiful. But then we looked at the other apartment—the one on the 18th floor—and it was perfect. The view…I had to have that fucking 18th story view. We used to sit outside on the balcony late at night, just watching the lights that lay out below…

"She made it down 12 flights before she tripped."

The face across from me grows fuzzy, and I dimly realize that I have been crying. Tears drip down onto my hands that lay clenched into fists on my lap, and I look down as I focus on straightening them out to lie flat on my thighs. Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I take a deep breath before pushing on.

"The cops wanted to prove that I pushed her, and I can't blame them. They come to tell some guy that his life is over, and find him in bed with another woman—of course they wanted to get me for something. But there was no evidence of any kind of foul play, and Tanya was a pretty convincing alibi. Didn't stop them from doing their level best to find a way to pin it on me, though. For weeks they hounded me, trying to get me to admit something. They even brought pictures, trying to get me to break. Or maybe they were just punishing me. They talked about things like massive internal hemorrhaging, and punctured lungs, and severe head trauma. They made sure I knew all the dirty details.

"It was almost 8:00 when she walked in on me, on the scene I had set up especially for her to see. Do you know when they put time of death at?"

"Yes; it was in the file."

"Yeah, I'm sure it was. It's not an exact science, so they couldn't pinpoint it exactly. But they estimated it to be between 11:00 and midnight. She ran down 12 flights of stairs, and then she tripped near the top of the 13th flight. She fell, and somewhere on the way down she broke her leg and four ribs, as well as cracking her head open. The head injury knocked her out, and caused some swelling of the brain, but it wouldn't have been fatal. It was the ribs that did it. They punctured her lungs, and pretty much shredded her inside. She lay there, unconscious, and slowly bled to death while I screwed some slut in our bed.

"Three hours, maybe more, it took her to bleed out. If I had gone after her, if I hadn't been so intent on getting the full measure of my revenge, it would have been enough time. They could have stopped the bleeding, and put her back together. But I didn't. The maintenance guy found her a little after 1:30; he called 911, but by then it was over."

The silence stretches on, broken only by my occasional sniffles as the tears continue to course down my cheeks. The numbness that allowed me to tell my story is starting to grow thin in spots, the pain beginning to bleed through. But I push it back as best I can, because I'm not finished yet. I don't think I will ever be able to tell this story again, so I want to finish it while I still can.

"I never told anybody what led up to that night. As far as the police were concerned, I was just some asshole who cheated on his girlfriend and got caught, with tragic consequences. I didn't see any point in telling them about what she had done. Her dad is chief of police in our hometown, and I didn't want it somehow getting back to him. They're the only ones who know about Tanya being there that night, although I'm sure that has more to do with sparing our family and friends any unnecessary pain than with protecting me. If they had their way, I'd be in prison just on general principle. As far as everybody else is concerned, it was just a tragic accident."

"That must be very difficult, to keep all those secrets from everyone."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, well, apparently I'm not the only one who's good at keeping secrets."

"What do you mean by that?"

"It was at the funeral home that I saw him again; that piece of shit that my girl spent her Tuesday afternoons with. I just turned around, and there he was, standing off to the side of the room and talking to my sister. I couldn't believe the fucker would have the nerve to show his face, and I felt the rage sweeping through me. I started over to him, planning on punching his face in. But then I stopped short, because Alice was hugging him. Hugging him! And then she turned to the man standing next to him, and she hugged him, too. And when she walked away, they wrapped their arms around each other."

I feel my lips twisting up into a cruel facsimile of a smile, the bitterness burning through my veins as I remember.

"It turns out, Laurent and James are partners, in every sense of the word. Alice met them a few years ago, when she and Jasper wanted to take some sort of dancing classes. They have a studio, and teach everything from ballroom dancing to swing. So when Bella told Alice that she wanted to learn how to dance as a surprise for my birthday, Alice introduced them."

"She wasn't cheating on you, then? She was taking dance classes?"

"Their studio only has formal classes scheduled on evenings and weekends, but when Bella explained that she didn't want me to know what she was up to, they offered to give her private lessons at their home. Midday on Tuesdays were the only times she was available when she knew I had class, so that's when she went. She barely had time between her morning and afternoon classes to squeeze it in, but she went every single Tuesday for 3 months. Because she wanted to dance with me on my birthday."

"When did you find all this out?"

"Right after the funeral. I cornered Alice and asked her who those two guys at the service were, and she broke down into tears and spilled the entire thing. She hadn't been going to tell me, but when I straight-out asked her about them, she couldn't keep it bottled up inside any longer."

"I'm not sure I understand; why wouldn't she want to tell you?"

"Because she understood the significance, and she didn't want me to hurt any more than I already was. She didn't want me to know how close I was to having everything I'd ever wanted."

"I still don't understand. What was the significance?"

"I had been asking Bella to marry me since we graduated from high school, but she always said no. It wasn't that she didn't love me, but she was terrified of getting married, especially so young. It almost became kind of a joke: every few months I would propose, and each time she would remind me that she still didn't know how to dance. It was her way of telling me that she wasn't saying 'no,' she was just saying 'not yet.'"

"So her taking lessons…"

"She was saying yes. On my birthday, she was finally going to say yes."

I lose it after that, unable to keep the pain at bay any longer. The doctor calls me a cab, and then convinces me to let him call Alice to meet me at home. He doesn't want me to be alone, most likely worried that I might not make it through the night. He doesn't understand that suicide is not an option for me, and I am too involved in my breakdown to explain any more tonight.

I don't remember getting home, but somehow I find myself lying in my own bed, clutching the silver frame to my chest as great heaving sobs wrack my body. I'm awake, but the images that flow through my mind are the same as the ones in my nightmares. They are full of brown eyes, and horror, and the pictures that were laid out on the dining room table. My imagination fills in the blanks as I see the most beautiful girl in the world stumbling down flight after flight of metal stairs, unable to see past the tears that won't stop coming. I see as she trips, one foot catching on the opposite ankle and sending her flying. I watch as she falls, twisting and tumbling, hitting the unforgiving steel treads again and again until with a final sickening thud, she lands in a twisted heap of limbs at the bottom. I watch as the pool of blood grows, as the pale luminosity of her skin slowly turns ashen, then slightly blue.

I don't know when sleep takes me, when the visions become dreams, but I wake to the sound of my own screams as Alice frantically shakes me, begging me to please wake up. She takes the day off to stay with me, over my halfhearted objections. I just want to be alone, but really don't have the energy to put up much of a fight. Besides, my sister is nearly impossible to sway once she has set her mind to something.

The weekend passes in a daze, and Alice finally goes back to her own home Sunday night—but only after I have sworn to call if I need anything. I spend most of Monday sitting in my customary spot, with my back to the glass door that leads out to the balcony, my picture clutched in my hands as my fingers trace over her perfect face again and again. Occasionally I find myself murmuring to her, saying, "I'm sorry, baby. I'm so, so sorry," over and over again. I stop whenever I catch myself; my apologies mean nothing.

My phone beeps twice—right on schedule—and I reluctantly drag myself through my nightly ritual. There is no comfort to be found in the routine tonight, but I cling to the familiarity of it.

Tuesday. 3:32, and I sit once again on the brown leather couch. The good doctor looks concerned as he asks how I have been holding up, but I can't manage more than a light shrug in response. Not much is accomplished today; I just don't have the energy.

Thursday is much the same, but I do manage to answer some questions and talk a bit. Not about anything important, but progress is progress.


	5. Chapter 5

(sorry for the false update, but I noticed a formatting issue that needed fixed)

Here it is, the final chapter. I have one outtake planned, but it will probably be sometime in December before it gets put up. It isn't written yet, and I need to finish the next chapter of Blood Play before I start working on anything else.

As always, all characters and recognizable plot belong to Stephenie Meyer. I own what little bit is left over.

* * *

Another weekend, and now an emotion is starting to make itself known. Irritation.

I have bared my soul, told the secrets I swore to take to my grave, and nothing has changed. I knew—I knew going into this that it wouldn't help anything. Yet somehow, I had managed to get sucked into almost hoping. Now I have to wonder…what was the damn point? Why did I put myself through that, if there was nothing to be gained?

Tuesday arrives, and I am early. I sit in the waiting room, knee bouncing, agitated and impatient. When I am finally called back, it is with quick, jerky movements that I enter the tidy little office and take a seat. "When does it get better?" I have barely made contact with the cool leather before the words are tumbling out.

"Hello, Edward. How did your weekend go?"

I don't answer; I simply stare impassively at him as my knee resumes its jerky movements. Esme would be aghast at my rudeness, but I don't have the time or inclination for basic pleasantries today.

With a deep sigh, my doctor sits back in his chair. He lifts his glasses up and rubs tiredly at his eyes for a moment, seeming to take a moment to gather himself before once again regarding me. "Edward, that's not really a question that I can give you an answer to. Grieving is a highly individual experience, and its severity and duration are affected by a great number of factors. It doesn't follow an exact timetable, and nobody can predict how long it will take to work through all the different stages—"

I have been shaking my head since partway through the second sentence, but he doesn't break off until I verbally interrupt him. "That's not what I mean. I'm not talking about the grief. I _want_ to grieve. The pain, and the heartache, and even the constant nightmares…I can take all of that. I _deserve_ all of that. But, I just…I want to be able to remember." I'm crying again, and I've only been here less than 5 minutes.

"You've mentioned before that every time you try to remember Bella, you see her face when she walked in on you that night."

"Yeah." I scrub at my cheeks with the heels of my hands, trying to erase the evidence of my weakness. I don't deserve to cry. Any pain I feel is of my own making, and I don't deserve the release that tears bring. Yet I can't seem to stop them from coming.

"I've tried everything. I can remember anything, as long as it's not her. Even times when she was there; if I'm not thinking about her in particular, then there's no problem. But the second she's involved, then everything disappears, and all I see is the way she looked the last time I saw her. I see her face, and her eyes, and I watch as she turns around and runs out of the room. Over and over again. And I've tried pushing past it, tried to force myself to think of something else, but that only makes it worse."

"How does it make it worse? What happens then?"

"As bad as it is seeing her hurt and crying, at least she's _alive_. If I try and push harder, then I see what she looked like in the pictures those bastards threw down in front of me. I see her broken, in a pool of blood, so still and lifeless. I see her falling, and breaking, and dying.

"She was the most beautiful thing I've ever known, and we had four and a half years together, and I can't even remember them! I can't remember what she looked like the first time I realized that I loved her. I can't remember the way it felt to hold her in my arms, or the smell of her hair, or the sound of her laugh. All I can remember is the way she looked when I broke her."

I'm not sure if I am making any sense by this point, or if he can even make out my words through the hands I have pressed over my face, through the sobs that are so powerful they shake my entire body. "I know it's all my fault, and that I deserve to suffer. But is it really so wrong to want to be able to remember her? Is that really to much to ask?"

He doesn't say anything for a long while, just sits there and lets me cry it out. Finally, I regain some semblance of control, and the shaking sobs ease their hold. When at last I am reduced to occasional snivels and whimpers, his somber voice reaches out to me again.

"I owe you an apology, Edward. I said something to you a couple of weeks ago, something that I believed to be true at the time, but that I now understand couldn't have been more wrong. I believed that you were using coping strategies, trying to avoid the pain that must come as a necessary part of the healing process. I told you that if you ever wanted to recover, then you would eventually have to let yourself feel that pain. I was wrong.

"You aren't avoiding pain, Edward; you're submersing yourself in it. You carry around a great deal of self-loathing, because you believe yourself to be to blame for your girlfriend's death. So you punish yourself, because you see your suffering as some sort of penance for your crimes. And until you can come to grips with that, until you can accept that what happened was nothing but a tragic series of circumstances and mistakes, this will not go away. You asked when it gets better; and while the answer to that is quite complex, at the same time it is really very simple. Until you can learn to forgive yourself, and realize that you are not to blame for what happened, it's not going to."

"Forgive myself."

"Yes."

"So, until I can forgive myself, this is what my life is going to be like? The nightmares, and the flashbacks, and the inability to remember anything good? Is that what you're saying?"

"Yes, that is exactly what I am saying. I realize that it won't be easy—Edward? Where are you going?"

I turn around slightly and glance back at him, my hand on the knob of the door that now stands half-opened behind me. "Never mind, then. I can see that it's impossible. Thank you so much for your help." I close the door softly behind me, and I don't look back.

As the weeks pass, I slowly come to realize that my time spent with the good doctor wasn't the waste I had suspected it to be. It didn't help in the ways that Alice had intended, nor did it accomplish what I had briefly hoped it might. Yet still, for all its failings, it did bring several things to light that I might otherwise never have understood.

The more I think on the matter, the more I realize the doctor was correct in his analysis of my psyche. I am punishing myself, purposefully inflicting as much pain as possible on my mind and heart—both consciously and unconsciously. I also believe his assessment that unless I can forgive myself, the unconscious punishment will continue unabated. That is where his opinion and mine part ways, however. He thinks that I need to learn to forgive myself; I know that will never happen. I don't want forgiveness. I don't deserve it, and I refuse to grant it.

I will not absolve my Bella's murderer of his guilt, but it is time to stop making everybody else suffer along with me. They need for me to start living again; to give the appearance of moving on, and picking up the pieces of my life. So that is what I do.

When registration opens for classes for winter semester, I am one of the first in line. Medical school is still my goal, although my former passion is nowhere to be found. But I go through the motions, and I do it well. I spend more time with my family, and even make a good attempt at rebuilding my relationship with Jasper. We will never be as close as we once were, but it feels good to have him as a friend again.

Slowly, as the months drag on, the pictures begin to come down one by one. It starts in the bathroom, when the putty finally loses its battle with the boiling steam in the shower stall, and—even though it is one of the hardest things I have ever done—I don't replace it. The bathroom mirror is next; I walk in one day to find a scrap of laminated paper lying facedown on the counter, and after a moment's hesitation I toss it into the trash. The mirror remains unadorned after that. The rest follow, until finally everything is once again as it was before the world ended. The picture on my nightstand stays where it belongs now, instead of being toted around the apartment like some sort of talisman. Although sometimes, before slipping under the covers for the night, I pick it up and trace the outline of her face.

Graduation comes and goes, and the time when I must leave the only home we ever shared grows near. I am moving across the country for med school, and have no justifiable reason to keep the apartment. All of her things, all the artifacts of our too-short life together, are still here, and I know I will never be able to leave it like this. So I go through the rooms, and I pack up everything that I can't bear to part with. Then I call Alice in to deal with the rest. By the time she finishes, the apartment is bare—almost sterile—bearing almost no resemblance to the happy home we created. When the time comes, I leave with barely a backward glance. I do spare a moment to gaze through the glass door leading out to the balcony as I make a final walk-through, but I don't go out. I haven't stepped through that door since the last time we sat together and gazed at the night, and I won't now.

Medical school is difficult, but I welcome the hard work and grueling hours. I graduate at the top of my class, and my family all flies in for a graduation celebration. The mood is happy and light, and I wear the smiling mask with ease for most of the night. Sometime after midnight, I find myself alone in a quiet corner, holding a glass of champagne I have yet to take a sip of. I think myself alone, and let the smile slip from my face as I stare down into the bubbles that fizz and pop against the delicate crystal.

I feel a presence beside me, and glance up as my father nears and claps his hand on my shoulder. He doesn't look at my face, but something tells me that he has clued into my mood. Carlisle has always been almost eerily observant; combined with his compassion and dedication, it is one of the things that make him such an exceptional doctor. We stand silently for a while, just looking out over the crowd assembled to celebrate my emergence from the sheltered walls of the schoolroom and into the real world of adulthood.

"She would have been so proud of you right now." His voice is quiet, and I can hear the faded edges of grief in it. She was his daughter, just as much as I am his son, and I know that he still feels her loss deeply. We all do.

"I mean it, son." He continues. "She thought the sun rose and set in your honor; that you hung the moon and the stars and kept the Earth spinning on its axis. She always believed you would be something great, and she was right. She would be so happy to see this, to see you moving forward and doing everything you both dreamed you would. She would want to know that you were moving on with your life, and that you held onto your dreams. We're all so proud of you."

With one last squeeze of his hand on my shoulder, he walks away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

That night marks a change. For the last 4 years, I have been living for my family. Putting on a front of normality and acceptance, but failing to actually move forward. My father's little speech changes that.

Because he is wrong. She would not be proud of me right now. She would not be happy with the way I go through the motions of living, the way I have no passion for anything anymore. She always wanted me to do what I loved, what I was passionate about. Whether that meant a career spent playing the piano in smoke-filled bars and clubs, or the sleep-deprivation and uncertain personal life that went with being a surgeon. She always said that I had the ability to make the world a better place, whether through saving lives through medicine, or healing souls through music. She believed in me, no matter what.

And there's so little that I can give her now. I can't forgive myself, even though I know that she would absolve me in a moment. I can't be happy, even though it was all she ever wanted for me. But this…this, I can do. I didn't save her, and nothing I can ever do will change that fact. But I can save others. That's what I've been working toward all this time, after all—even though it stopped being my motivation the moment a knock on the door awakened me at 3:00 one morning. And my family's circumstances, the wealth that I always took for granted and that she always eschewed, puts me in a fairly unique position to use that medical degree I so carelessly acquired. I'm not ready yet; I know that. There is still internship, and residency, and all that other necessary groundwork to lay. But for the first time in 4 years, I feel like I have a purpose.

The next morning, as my family all gathers together for a final breakfast before going our separate ways again, I tell them my plans. Most of them are supportive—Alice is especially enthusiastic—and a few voice reservations, but my mind is made up. Carlisle meets my eyes from across the table, and I see his acceptance and approval. He understands who I am doing this for, although he will never know why. He supports any decision I make, and I know he will support me in this, as well.

5 years later, amid hugs and I love you's and tearful goodbyes, I board the plane that is the first leg of my journey.

* * *

"Uncle Edward, you made it!" A tiny body launches itself at me, and slender arms wrap around my neck almost tightly enough to choke off my air supply.

"Of course I did, silly girl. You didn't honestly think I would miss my favorite niece's wedding, did you?" I chuckle as I press a kiss to the top of her head. A giggle greets my words, and the blonde firecracker in my arms pulls back enough to take a mock-surreptitious look around.

"Shhhh. You don't want Charlotte to hear you call me that, do you? After all, we wouldn't want the ice-queen to topple off her throne."

"Be nice, Brianna," I try to scold, although I'm sure the smile on my face negates any bite the words might hold. "Besides, Char got her chance at being favorite when she got married. It's your turn, now. Speaking of which, where are your parents hiding at?"

The day goes by in a flurry of hugs and I love you's and tearful hello's. I don't get to see my family often, and catching up on their lives takes quite a bit of time. Dinner is a large and festive occasion, with Bree and her Fiancé, Riley, as the guests of honor. Tomorrow night is the rehearsal dinner, but tonight is for catching up. Bree is her usual effervescent self, the very image of her mother except for the blonde curls she inherited from Jasper. Peter, Char's husband, is thinking about volunteering for a stint with Doctors Without Borders, and his questions keep me occupied for a good part of the meal.

This is the first time I have been back to the house I grew up in since Dad's funeral 2 years ago, and the occasion is bittersweet as the happy atmosphere battles with the somber memories of the last time I was here. I catch Em's eye across the table, and his sad smile lets me know that I am not alone in wishing Mom and Dad could be here for their youngest granddaughter's wedding.

After dinner everybody breaks up and goes their own way; there is still lots to be done, and the big event is only 2 days away. I'm glad I was able to get here a couple of days ahead of time, so that I can get my head into the right place. Weddings are difficult for me.

Finally, the hour grows late, and those of us who are staying in the house head off to our beds for the night. I am sleeping in my childhood bedroom, and take a moment to center myself before opening the door and stepping inside. Twenty minutes later I am showered, shaved, and ready to slip between the sheets. Before turning off the bedside light, I sit on the edge of the bed and pick something up off the nightstand.

I stare for several minutes at the picture in my hands—just an ordinary 5x7 in a simple silver frame. Her face smiles out at me; chocolate eyes bright with happiness, wavy sable hair flowing past her shoulders, pink lips curved up and ever so slightly parted. I know that she is wearing a dark blue dress that bares her shoulders, and that I am standing next to her in a black tuxedo. I know that one of her legs is in a walking cast, and that our arms are wrapped around each other. I know these things because this picture from our junior prom has sat next to whatever bed I am sleeping in for the last 40 years, but I don't see them right now. All I see is her face, happy and in love.

With one last brush of my fingertip over the fragile curve of her jaw line, I gently place the picture back on the nightstand before turning the light off and sliding into bed. I take one last long look at her sitting next to my bed before I close my eyes and focus on the blackness, pushing all thoughts out of my head and willing myself to sleep.

I dream of her.

I always do.


End file.
